To the right is the living room, which is quite spare. There is a giant plasma TV on the wall, a coffee table and a long couch. There is also an idle vacuum cleaner on the plush white carpet. A police officer stands facing the couch where a young man sits, head in arms, crying.

Newspapers and boxes are piled on the narrow steep steps that lead up to darkness. There is no bulb in the light fixture. The carpet is thick with dirt. An officer stands outside the bedroom. He shines a light in. Dust swirls in the light beam.

I walk in alone. The leaves of late fall rest brittle on the ground. I have to watch my step on the uneven terrain. Bare branches pull at my pants and workshirt.